but for now we stay so far 'til our lonely limbs collide
by StarcrossedJedis
Summary: He can already feel this god damn ache again – this primal pull – even hundreds of miles haven't been able to soothe. Still, it doesn't really hit him until he finds himself not even two hours later, staring out at the King's Road passing by the first bus heading out to Highgarden with Ghost snoring gently at his feet. He is truly, utterly, irrevocably fucked.
1. Chapter 1

It takes Jon a moment to figure out what has woken him up. Or where he is to begin with.

A quick glance around tells him he's back in his apartment at Castle Black. The clock by the bed shows 3:05am in red, angry digits. He's been back in Westeros for less than four hours. That same time yesterday night he and his team mates had been buried waist deep in snow, waiting to be flown out from yet another mission north of the Wall. He rubs his face with a tired groan while his phone continues in the offensively loud act of buzzing its way across the night stand. Ghost, who is occupying roughly eighty percent of the bed, whimpers softly in his sleep. Jon sits up and grabs the phone, silently cursing whomever decided this was an appropriate time to call. Who cares if they don't know that he's been asleep for less than an hour? It's still three o'clock in the bloody morning and there is – a second Northern Invasion aside – absolutely no excuse to be calling at such an ungodly hour. He gives another heartfelt string of curses before finally taking the call and Gods, he hopes it's not yet another mission. They haven't even been debriefed on the last one and he really needs some time to take care of his apartment. Even after almost a year there are still unopened boxes lining the walls and – there's really no sensitive way to put it – his laundry basket reeks. Not to mention that he hasn't had a proper day off in months. In short, Jon Snow is in desperate need of a little down time.

"Yes...?"

"Hey, Jon. It's me."

And just like that all thought of sleep or laundry or work are lost. Suddenly it doesn't matter what time it is or how tired he is. Not when it's hercalling. Not when he's hearing her say his name for the first time in over six months.

"Sansa", he breathes and he's surprised how steady his voice sounds when his hands are shaking and his heart is beating a hundred miles per second. He tells himself it's merely the surprise at having her call him, maybe worry at the unusual time she picked to do it. Nothing more. After all, who knows the terrible meaning of late-night calls better than they do? "Is everything okay? Has something happened?"

"No, I'm fine." She is slurring her words again. She tries to hide it by speaking particularly articulated, but Jon still notices. He always does. Sansa has taken a lot of leads from Cersei Lannister during her years spent in King's Landing following their... her parents' accident - most of which have made her into the successful and adored fashion icon she is now. Jon just wishes she hadn't also adapted the former First Lady's habit of drowning her sorrows in too much alcohol.

It doesn't take too much for him to picture her - and somewhere deep down part of him is ashamed at how easy it is to conjure her image - lying on her bed, still clad in some obscenely expensive designer dress, her bare feet propped up against the mahogany headboard and her hair a fiery halo against white, pristine bedsheets. He swallows hard and closes his eyes, willing the image to disappear.

There is a lingering silence and Jon half wonders if maybe she hung up when she speaks again and her voice sounds so small and so frail it leaves his heart aching for a way to comfort her, his hands longing to touch. But her words pain him even more. "Do you think I'm cursed, Jon?"

Maybe it's the early hour and his lack of sleep or maybe it's the fact that he hasn't been able to form a coherent train of thought around her for quite some time now. Maybe it's the fact that he tries not to think about his family's tragedies too much for fear that the pain of it all will crush him. Whatever it is, it leaves him at a loss for words.

He's not a particularly spiritual person. And yes, he – along with Sansa and Bran and Arya – has more reason than most to feel like something – destiny, dark forces, a curse or whatever else they want to call it – has had a hand in making their lives as tragic and difficult as they are, but that's not what he believes.

Jon believes in principles and he believes in the law. Why else would he have volunteered to serve in the Night's Watch? He believes in knowing right from wrong, even though he feels like he's been struggling lately. He believes there are good people and bad people and that sometimes people need time to figure out who they are. And he believes that sometimes, for no reason at all, life fucks you over. The good, it seems, more so than the bad and Jon suspects it's because the good play by the rules. Life is made miserable by much more complicated things than curses. He suspects that's not the answer Sansa is looking for.

"Why would you think that?", he asks instead, knowing it's terribly inadequate.

"It's just... I don't know. It's just been a shitty few weeks, I guess", Sansa gives back weakly and Jon can tell there is a whole novel hidden within these vague words.

Well, I wouldn't know. The words are dancing perilously close to the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them. He knows full well that he's also to blame for the fact that they haven't spoken to each other in months. It is possible that he alone is to blame.

If he had chosen a different path after what happened between them at the Feast of Light, maybe things wouldn't be so messed up now. If only he had been less of a coward... But there is no point in dwelling on what could have been. Things are what they are and right now they are messed up. He and Sansa will probably never be back to the way they've been half a year ago and he has no one but himself to blame.

"Will you be coming home for the Feast of the Maiden?"

"The Feast of the Maiden, right", he repeats lamely, realising he completely blanked out on Sansa' favourite holiday. Mostly because deep down he's been absolutely positive that after everything she wouldn't want him there. To say he's surprised by her asking is an understatement. "It's in... two weeks?"

"Try two days", Sansa gives back with a little chuckle that should delight him – used to delight him for as long as he can remember – but does nothing now to ease the tension between them, because he can tell it's not genuine. "Arya's already bailing on me and Bran... well, you know. Don't tell me you've forgotten."

"No! No, it's not that", he lies, because this stupid day means so damn much to her that he doesn't have the heart to tell her otherwise, even though he doesn't think it would be a good idea to go. Be around her for days on end. Play happy family. Live under the same roof, separated by nothing but a few doors...

"I know you're under a lot of pressure with your job and all, don't worry", she says and he thinks that maybe this is the worst – asking himself if she is putting up a front or if she really doesn't feel like things between them have changed, because he's sitting there with his thoughts all but tripping over each other in an attempt to make sense of the past few minutes while she went and turned an awkward drunk-dial into an innocent case of "casually asking my ex half-brother turned dark family secret to join the annual Sansapalooza" and he's struggling to keep track.

"Half of Westeros is coming and I just thought it would be nice to see each other again. I miss you, Jon."

The rational part of him tries to reason that this is for the best; that things between them should not, cannot change. Ever. But when it comes to Sansa reason has been lost on a cold night in Brightwater six months, four days and three hours ago. He can already feel this god damn ache again – this primal pull – even hundreds of miles haven't been able to soothe.

Still, it doesn't really hit him until he finds himself not even two hours later, staring out at the King's Road passing by the first bus heading out to Highgarden with Ghost snoring gently at his feet.

He is truly, utterly, irrevocably fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes Jon over ten minutes to gather enough courage to get out of the taxi that's driven him from the bus station to the Bolton family's summer house in Highgarden.

He's sitting in the back seat – there is no way Ghost would ever ride in the back of a stranger's car alone and Jon never had the heart to make him – and staring up the ridiculously long driveway leading from a massive iron gate to yet another cookie cutter Highgarden mansion. Blindingly white walls lined with wide, spotless windows, a meticulously trimmed lawn and vibrant, fragrant roses that have probably won some stupid gardening contest at some point. He's passed at least ten houses just like this one on his way here. The only thing telling this one apart from the others is the elegant, white pavilion standing out back. He can only see a fraction of it from where he's sitting, but it's not his first time here and he knows that it's taking up at least one fifth of the park like back garden. Just one of the superlatives at work when the High Society of Westeros is on parade.

There is a white van labelled "Hot Pie's Catering" parked in front of the lordly entrance with its marble steps and over-the-top columns and people in various forms of workwear are hurrying in and out of the house and around the garden. Sansa really doesn't mess around when it comes to the Feast of the Maiden. It was her mother's favourite holiday and after her sudden death she took it on herself to keep the tradition of hosting a glamorous charity event on the first night of the three day celebration.

Back before everything had gone to shit they used to spend the second day at home – playing boardgames, cooking together, overall just enjoying each other's company – then went to the fairground by the river to watch the swans and the firework on the last night. Jon still remembers how enchanted Sansa used to look, staring up as the sky exploded with a thousand colours above their heads and with her hand firmly grasping that of her mother. No wonder she is giving it her all year after year. She probably never feels closer to her mum than she does during these few days.

The taxi driver awkwardly clears his throat and gives him a pointed look through the rear mirror. Jon hastily apologises and pays him – along with a generous tip – takes his duffel bag and gets out of the car with Ghost following heel like the good boy he is.

The gate opens without much of a bother. Jon's been in the yellow press more than his fair share over the past few years - "Stark Bastard Turns Out To Be Secret Heir To Targaryen Fortune" had been a headline too juicy to pass on even for the more serious news outlets throughout the Seven Kingdoms – so he doesn't even need to show his ID before the security guy waves him through.

The front door is open and Jon doesn't even get a chance to as much as think about changing his mind, before he is more or less ushered inside by two guys hurrying up the stairs behind him, carrying a massive floor vase with long stemmed white lilies – Sansa's favourite flowers.

And that's it. After roughly two thousand miles and two days on three different buses he's back where it all began. Or where it ended, depending on how he chooses to look at it. Jury's still out on that.

"Hello?"

His voice actually echoes in the wide foyer, which is almost entirely taken up by a grand, winded staircase and the biggest crystal chandelier he has ever seen outside an opera house. The sheer scale of this place leaves him yearning for the Stark's old, cosy summer house down by the river. He would always pick the rustic charm of the old log cabin over these marble halls. But Sansa has always dreamed of living in a place like this growing up. To live like a princess. Is she happy here, after all, in this ivory tower, engulfed between silk curtains and mahogany antiques?

"Jon."

It's funny. Even though he's here to see her, hearing her voice is still a shock. "You're here."

He looks up and there she is, standing atop the stairs, looking breathtakingly beautiful in something as simple as a pair of dark skinny jeans and a grey shirt, her hair pulled up in a lose ponytail. She's staring down at him with her eyes wide in what he can only describe as surprise. And that's when it hits him. That's when he suddenly gets it. Why she's been acting so... her on the phone while he's barely been able to hold it together. How she was able to go and invite him into her home when he could barely make it through that phone call. It's not that for Sansa things between them haven't changed. It's that she has been certain that things between them were so utterly messed up that he would never come here anyway. She'd thrown out a bunch of empty words – Lannister style, a tiny voice in his head spits bitterly and he would swear it sounds a little like Arya – save in the belief that they'd be without consequence. He has a feeling that faced with the consequences now, she regrets her carefree words.

And Jon? He feels lie the dumbest person alive. And even though he usually tries to keep all thoughts of Ygritte – fiery, mouthy, wonderful, deadYgritte – buried as deep as humanely possible, he now can't help and think about his late colleague and lover's first ever words to him. "You know nothing, Jon Snow."

Judging by the evidence it's true. Apparently he knows horse shit – especially when it comes to women.

He feels terribly awkward standing there like this. Like somehow the grown man serving in what's inarguably the most dangerous job in Westeros has been transformed back into a clumsy teenage boy with arms too long for his body and a weird stubble on his upper lip. Goes to show that special training and a steady trigger finger does crap for you unless you find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun. He would trade this moment with another trip north the Wall without missing a beat.

"I thought you really wanted me here..." It almost sounds like he's apologising – maybe he is. For being here. For not getting it sooner. For making the situation hard on both of them. He's almost ready to just turn around and bail when the strangest thing happens.

Sansa takes a tentative step down the stairs, then another, her eyes still fixed on him.

"Jon", his name falls from her lips in something like a strangled sob and suddenly she's all but racing down the steps; dumb luck and a complete disregard for the laws of physics the only two things keeping her from falling and then she's right there with him, hurling herself at him with so much force that she almost knocks him over. Her arms wrap tightly around his shoulders and she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

"I did", she whispers and the sensation of her warm breath against his neck sends a shiver down his spine. "I did want you to come here."

He senses a big, ugly but behind her words. But I didn't know if after everything you'd come. But I was afraid this is a terrible mistake.

Whatever it is, though, it will have to wait. Right now the feeling of her in his arms leaves no room for much else. She smells like lemony shampoo and a flowery, expensive lotion and Jon's very distinctly aware that he's giving off the typical smell of a man who went two days without a shower, but if she notices, she doesn't seem to care. In that moment it's just them, holding on to each other like people drowning. Jon feels her shaking against him and wonders if she's crying.

But when she finally takes a step back – Jon has to fight the impulse to wince at the sudden loss of contact – and kneels down to greet Ghost, who has been spending the past moments wailing and wagging an exited tail against the back of his legs, she's smiling brightly at the giant direwolf. "Hey, my beautiful boy. I've missed you, too."

As she's running both hands through thick, white fur the sunlight catches in the impressive princess cut stone adorning her left ring finger. He wouldn't be Jon Snow, Certified Knower of Nothing, if he doesn't find exactly the right words to ruin this precious moment.

"So, where's Ramsay?"

That little prick's name alone is enough to leave a stale taste in his mouth and it's not lost on him how Sansa stills in her movements for the briefest of moments, her features clouding over before she quickly catches herself and slips back into that perfect facade she's learned to wear at King's Landing. Strong Sansa. Runway Sansa. Everybody's darling. She's smiling again, but this time it doesn't reach her eyes. He doesn't know what's going on exactly, what about the mention of her fiancé has her reacting this way, but part of him is afraid of what he will do the day he finds out.

When that git Joffrey Baratheon had done the world a solid and OD'd during one of his family's extravagant outings, Jon had been oddly relieved, thinking that things were finally looking up for Sansa with her abusive on-off boyfriend out of her life for good. But then along came Ramsay Bolton.

To this day Jon doesn't understand what Sansa sees in that guy, let alone why she accepted when he proposed to her a little over a year ago. She never talks about it, but that much Jon understands – Bolton is treating her badly, even if he can't be sure what exactly that means. And if only half the rumours going around Westeros are true, he makes Joffrey Baratheon look like a harmless school yard bully.

For all the selfish, shameful reasons Jon has to hope for this wedding to never happen, no reason speaks louder than the taught set of Sansa's shoulders as she stands up now with one hand still absent mindedly stroking Ghost's back.

"Ramsay's on a business trip to Riverrun", she replies with a dismissive wave of her hand. "He called this morning. He won't be here until after the party." She doesn't seem too sad about her fiancé missing her favourite holiday.

"You must be starving", Sansa says in a very thinly disguised way to change the subject. "There's eggs and leftover pancake batter in the fridge. Let me fix you something."

"Sounds perfect", he gives back with a smile. He then follows her as she makes her way out of the foyer with Ghost trotting behind her like Jon's suddenly become invisible. Typical.

Jon knows full well that this is Sansa's way of declaring the subject 'Ramsay' off the table, but he is far from done. Maybe he's overreacting. Maybe he's reading too much into something that is actually nothing. And maybe he is actively looking for anything to distract him from the real issue he and Sansa will have to face sooner or later. But no matter his ulterior motives, one of these days he'll make her tell him what Ramsay Bolton is doing to her.

And whatever it is she'll tell him, he will make sure that there'll be hell to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa, Jon muses, has always been most at peace while doing chores.

He knows that sounds weird – somehow sexist – but it doesn't change the fact that she never looks as calm and collected and... yes, content walking the catwalks or taking the floor at fancy parties as she does now, standing in this vast, glossy white kitchen, whipping up eggs and covertly feeding Ghost bacon strips. Jon can't help but notice just how much she reminds him of her mother in that moment. Not just her auburn hair and piercing blue eyes, but her whole nature as well.

True, Catelyn Stark had never made the biggest effort to make him – her husband's bastard son – feel particularly welcome under her roof, but he still can't help but remember her as a natural born home maker. Whenever he thinks of her, he sees her standing in the kitchen humming a song under her breath or sitting in the salon and mending something with Sansa sitting by her feet. She might not have treated him like a son, but Jon has yet to find a depiction of The Mother that reflects the essence of what it means to make a home half as much as Catelyn Stark had. Maybe that's why her rejection hurt so much. Because she embodied everything Jon grew up wishing for in a mother. And Sansa is the same, whether she realises or not ad no matter how many times she crosses the Seven Kingdoms pretending to be someone else.

She is so much more than some hollow fashion icon, even if she's easily one of the most beautiful women he's ever known. And she's too good – and much too clever – to wither away as somebody's trophy wife.

And first and foremost she is so much kinder than she lets on. She's led a life that would have – should have – turned anyone else hard, but not her. Tomorrow, when everyone else is at home sleeping off the party, she'll be at the local orphanage with presents and spend the day with the children before heading to the Soup Kitchen and serving Maiden's Feast dinner to the homeless and the poor.

Sansa is guarded and marred by years of loss, abuse and tragedy, but first and foremost she is warm and loving and caring. She is – and Jon doesn't know if it's ever gonna become her reality or forever remain a figure of speech – a mother.

He doubts Ramsay Bolton cares much for this side of his fiancée. Try as he might, Jon can't shake the suspicion that there is an angle to this whole engagement that he doesn't understand. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking, because his stomach churns at the mere thought of Sansa exchanging vows with this man. Or any man...?  
And once again Jon feels himself get sucked back into the same dark circle of thoughts. Things that happened and the things that almost happened. Things that can never happen again. The things he wants and the things he knows he cannot have. I made a mistake, he thinks. Coming here has been a terrible mistake.

He's been naive to believe things could be normal if he just pretended hard enough. If the past hour has proven anything, it's that when it comes to her, things will never be normal again. And with each passing moment it's becoming harder and harder to leave. And he has to leave, if he wants a chance at saving what little there is left of his sanity. Leaving is the logical thing to do. But what he feels for Sansa has very little to do with logic – in fact, his feelings for her stem from the place furthest from anything logic – and he couldn't leave even if he wanted to. Not when it took him over six months to find the courage to see her again.

I'm a fool...

He actually jumps a little when Sansa places a plate in front of him, pulling him back to reality.

"Are you alright?", she asks and is he imagining things or is she really scanning his face for any clue that would tell her what he's been thinking about? "You looked a million miles away."

"It's nothing. I'm just tired and hungry. It's been a long trip." At least that's half true, because while right now he's feeling like he might never be able to sleep again, he really is unbelievably hungry and the lovingly arranged plate of chocolate chip pancakes, scrambled eggs with bacon and fresh fruit makes his mouth water.

"This looks amazing, Sansa. And it smells like Sundays in Winterfell."

She quickly turns her face away, but not before Jon notices the tears in her eyes and he knows he's made yet another mistake by bringing up the lost home of their childhood. But once again she gathers herself remarkably quick. She blinks back against the tears and when she turns back to him she's wearing that fake smile again. Jon isn't sure if she used to be more genuine with him before... before, or if somehow his long absence has made him more attune to the fine nuances in which she expresses her emotions.

"It's mom's old pancake recipe", she says softly. "I always feel better when I cook something of hers. It comforts me."

"Do you need comforting?" The question slips before Jon even has a chance to think about it. He's too worried. And much too eager to ease whatever pain she might be feeling. "You can tell me anything, Sansa."

She's been reaching to refill his coffee mug, but his words still her mid-movement, her hand awkwardly hanging in the air between them for a moment – close enough for him to reach out and touch it, if only he was less of a coward – before dropping back to her side. She watches him with her head cocked slightly to the side and the look in her eyes is some place between a question and a challenge. Can I, Jon?

Yes, can she...?

He realises with a pang of guilt that this claim is as ripe with hypocrisy as his disdain for her empty words and fake smiles. Isn't he the one who ran away? Hasn't he moved to the other side of the continent and thrown himself into mission after mission after mission, because he had found that it was easier to risk his life beyond the Wall than to face what they have done? He opens his mouth to say something, closes it again. There really isn't much that he can say, is there?

For once the Gods decide to show a little mercy on him. A young woman with a tablet and a headset – classical party planner gear – bursts into the kitchen and saves them from yet another moment of heavy silence. Jon recognises her from his Aunt Lyssa's preparations for the Feast of Light. It seems like the harder he tries to forget about those days, the more every little thing keeps bringing them back.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt, Lady Stark", the pretty brunette tells Sansa. Her eyes come to rest on Jon for a moment, but barely long enough to tell if she, too, recognises him or not and then something on her tablet catches her attention and he's all but forgotten. "The florist needs you to take a look at the centre pieces for the pavilion now or else he won't be able to make any last minute changes."

"I'll be right out, Jeyne", Sansa replies, but the other woman is already half out of the kitchen, mumbling into her headset with about hundred miles per second. When she turns back to Jon, he sees the same sense of relief he's feeling mirrored on her face. "I'm sorry, I have to go. You can finish your breakfast while I have someone prepare a guest room for you."

Jon watches her leave and knows this is his final chance to back out. Come up with a paper thin lie about why he cannot stay and be on his way. He could be home in time to celebrate the last day of the feast by getting trashed in his favourite bar with his friend Tormund. But who is he trying to fool but himself? He's not going anywhere.

"Thank you, Sansa."

She stops once she reaches the door, facing away from him. Her gaze is fixed on something down the hall or on nothing at all and her fingers are tapping nervously against the wooden door frame. The light shining through the kitchen window paints her auburn hair a fiery red against the ivory of her skin. She is so beautiful that Jon finds himself holding his breath.

"Please, don't leave while I'm gone", she pleads softly and then she's gone.


End file.
